Assassins

by Ray Timms

  ‘Your contract is quite specific Gent. If you don’t make the hit, then you don’t get paid.’

  Gent was getting angry. Not only would he not get paid if someone else made the hit, his World Number 2 Hitman ranking was sure to plummet. He could find himself below the Number 12, the Ethiopian Abdullah Mukwamba, or God forbid, below Number15, Miranda Belladonna, the skinny ex-trapeze artist.

  Needing a change of weapon, Gent called in at MI5’s Edinburgh office and signed out two handguns and a McMillan .300 Win Mag snipers rifle fitted with a nightscope and a few boxes of ammo.

  Using another of his false identities Gent checked into another hotel, his third in as many days. He took a room at the very top of the Norfolk Arms Hotel on George IV Street. He had chosen this hotel and this room specifically because from the window he could see over the walls of Holyrood Palace.

  After eating out that evening Gent went back to his hotel room and keeping the lights turned off he pulled a chest of drawers over to the window. He then set the Mag snipers rifle up on its tripod. He skilfully checked the night vision scope and then swung the rifle about checking its horizontal range. He was happy he could swing the gun through 180 degrees. From this vantage point he could see right into the King’s bedroom. And the King, rather conveniently, never kept the curtains drawn. Pulling over a chair he sat down to wait. Gent muttered, ‘just because you are not coming out into the open, Your Majesty, doesn’t mean you are safe from the worlds number two Hitman.’

  It still irritated Gent to think the Swedish Meatball occupied the top spot. Gent was thinking, taking out the King of Scotland, would surely force the ranking committee to put him at the top?

  Chapter Thirty- one

  Holyrood Palace.

  Gent, waiting for the King to go up to bed, thought he must be seeing things when just after midnight he saw something as black as a shadow move stealthily through the branches of the gigantic tree that towered over the Palace.

  *

  Around midnight, feeling dog tired Gavin crossed the hall and opened their bedroom door. Fiona had gone to bed an hour ago. He couldn’t tell in the dark if she was awake or not. Not wanting to disturb her he didn’t turn the light on. Closing the door behind him he undressed in the moonlight spilled on the carpet through the window. That was when he thought he saw something move in the top of the huge Douglas Fir tree that dominated the gardens outside. Fiona always complained that he should keep the curtains drawn but he didn’t see the point, besides he loved to have the sun wake him in the morning. Standing to one side of the window Gavin narrowed his eyes and stared up into the distant branches and saw nothing.

  ‘Gav, come away from the window.’

  He glanced back and in the gloom under the fringe of the four-poster canopy he saw his wife stir and throw back the covers his side of the bed.

  ‘Come and get into bed will you.’ Fiona said sleepily. ‘What you doing looking out the window?’ I wish you would pull the curtains, people can see right in.’

  Craning his neck for one last look and satisfied it must have been an owl that he saw, Gavin shrugged and went over to the bed and slid in beside his wife. With her arms wrapped around him, he was asleep within seconds.

  Gent cursed. For a second there, he had the King in the crosshairs of his rifle sights. He was about to squeeze off his shot when the King moved back out of sight.

  The assassin wasn’t too worried. Come daylight and with no curtains in the bedroom window the King would get out of bed and then step into his line of fire.

  *

  Virtually invisible in her black cat suit and perched high in the top of the Douglas Fir tree, wearing night vision goggles, Miranda Belladonna was perfectly positioned to make her assault on the King’s bedroom. She planned to give it an hour and when she was sure the King was asleep she will enter his bedroom via the window and then garrotte him.

  At 1.10 am. The ex- trapeze artist pulled from her belt a spring-loaded cylinder. Aiming the tool at the stone parapet immediately above the King’s bedroom, Miranda pressed the trigger. She watched the scaling hook attached to a nylon line shoot across the thirty-foot gap and with the faintest clatter drop behind the castellated roof structure. Miranda gave the line a tug and felt the hook grip the stonework. She then tied her end around a stout tree branch and then tested her weight on it. Satisfied the line was safe, the killer hooked a zip wire over the line and then launched herself off. Belladonna landed feet first against the wall just above the King’s bedroom.

  *

  When he saw a black shadowy figure zip-wire across the gap between the tall tree and the King’s bedroom Gent cursed. There was no doubt in his mind that the slim person clinging like a starfish to the wall and using a tool to cut a hole in the King’s bedroom window was Miranda Belladonna, listed Number 12 in the Honourable League of Hitmen. Focusing the rifle sight on the back of the woman’s head he was about to pull the trigger when he had a better idea. He decided that leaving another gunshot victim lying around would have the police go looking for the shooter. He swivelled the rifle a little to the left.

  Clinging like a limpet to the wall, having removed her night vision goggles and using the glasscutter she had removed from her belted toolkit, Belladonna cut a circle of glass from the window and dropped this into the bushes at the foot of the wall. Her skinny but wiry fingers found a notch in the brickwork. With her face pressed to the brickwork she began to crab to her left. At that moment the brick just inches from her face exploded sending stinging pieces of stone and cement dust into her eyes. Acting instinctively, Belladonna’s hand came off the wall and shot up to protect her eyes. She lost her grip on the wall.

  Watching the woman fall, in the darkness of his hotel room, almost a quarter of a mile away, Gent smiled. Another five seconds and she would have got into the King’s bedroom. It was genius the way it worked out. His bullet had smacked into the stonework right by her face causing her to be blinded and fall. He angled the rifle down and focused the sights on her still form lying on the concrete yard. Gent could tell from the angle of her neck and the way that her dead eyes seemed to leap out at him that she was dead.

  Belladonna was a goner.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Holyrood.

  Mary Dewar was relieved to hear there no bodies were found in the wreckage of the English tanks. No bodies meant the event could not be traced back to her. She had had Appleby and his men rounded up and put on a boat to the Outer Hebrides.

  Right now she had the King standing in front of her accusing her of being behind the plot.

  ‘Your Majesty, I had nothing to do with it. I don’t know how you can even think that. I assure you the matter is being thoroughly investigated. Initial reports suggest: a small platoon of men – carrying out military exercises in the hills above Holyrood – got into some difficulties – there was a fire that led to an explosion. Fortunately no one was hurt. It was nothing for you to be concerned about.’

  Gavin looked over at Cruid whose face remained enigmatic. His ice-blue eyes seemed dead. Gavin imagined the man could catch flies with his tongue. ‘What’s your take on this Cruid? What have you to say for yourself? How can you sit there and say you played not part in this?’

  Moving slowly like a Heron, its feet seeking secure footing in a muddy river, Cruid got up from his chair and faced Gavin.

  ‘You want my honest opinion? In the vain hope that you will take it, I will offer you this piece of advice. You should abdicate forthwith and then you and your family should go back to Marbury, back to your old way of life.’ Cruid added. ‘However, before you abdicate, would you be kind enough to sign the bill that will rescind the Royal Assent law. Both Mary and I along with the Scottish People would be most appreciative.’

  ‘I bet you would, ‘Gavin snapped. ‘I bet you would rather I didn’t nationalise the railways, and I didn’t bring about a shakeup of the Scottish banking industry, and scrap bankers bonuses, and bring in my programme to build tens of thousa
nds of council homes, and I bet you would rather I didn’t outlaw zero hours contracts, make payday loans illegal, scrap hospital parking charges, to say nothing of the introduction of free school milk and the law reducing the alcohol content in beers wines and spirits. Would you rather none of that happened?’

  Mary smiled. ‘Yes, I have to admit, if you could see your way to give up on those very worthy but unworkable ideas that would be much appreciated.’

  Gavin got up to leave. Turning on them at the door he said, ‘I am not abdicating and in in four days time those laws will come into force.’

  Mary Dewar physically jumped when Gavin slammed the door behind him. Turning to Cruid Mary said. ‘This is serious Cruid. Has Sven Johannson landed yet?’

  Cruid peered over the bend in his nose at her.

  ‘I heard he flew into Edinburgh this morning.’

  ‘Good. Get him in here and lets get this wrapped up.’

  The two Scottish Government officials knew nothing of the man they were to collect. At the airport they loaded Sven Johannson’s heavy bags into the boot of the government car that was parked right alongside his plane and then drove him unchallenged out through the staff gates.

  So far, Sven was quite happy with the Scot’s preparations. The video negotiations had gone well and once he had the Scottish First Minister’s signature on his contract, he would get on with the job.

  Confidant the King would be dead within twenty-four hours, the Swedish world Number1 hitman had already booked his flight out of Edinburgh for the following day.

  The Scottish agents drove Johannson to his hotel on Princes Street and dropped him and his bags off on the steps.

  What made Sven the number one hitman was not just the cool manner in which he despatched his victims, his excellent backup crew and research team kept him informed of the smallest detail regarding his assignments. It was his back-office crew that let him know the British agent Bartholomew Gent was in Edinburgh and that he had been here for the past four days. That wasn’t good news for the Swede. In the Honorary League of Hitmen Code of conduct it states: “Whomsoever is the first on the scene of the hit takes precedent over all other assassins. Any Hitman or Hitwoman found to be in breach of this rule will be incur a five point demotion.” The Ranking Committee of the Honorary League of Hitmen, a shadowy band of people whose names are kept secret met bi-annually where they would pontificate on the recent activities of their paid up members. Points for an assassination are awarded based on a number of pertinent factors: e.g.: the celebrity status of the person eliminated, the degree of difficulty of the hit and on artistic merit. Each Hitman or Hitwoman is ranked according to the points earned between one and one hundred. For the past eight years the Ranking Committee have placed Sven Johannson Number 1 and Gent Number 2.

  Although the Swedish Meatball was perfectly aware of rule 7b, he has no intention of leaving. There is far too much money involved. Also the target is a King and regicide is worth a whole ten points, added to which: Sven hated the Brit who was forever accusing the ranking Committee of taking bribes from the Swede. The fact that this happened to be true was immaterial. The man was a nuisance and had to be taken out.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Edinburgh.

  Francesco (Frank) Guardo had been looking forward to a rare weekend off. He had planned to do some of the jobs around the garden. Yesterday, he noticed that blackfly were decimating his runner beans. Instead of which he was in the city morgue with Doctor Liam Tong a forensic pathologist with the Edinburgh police authority. Tong, dressed in green coveralls, white gloves and his apron spattered with gore was poking around in the chest cavity of a cadaver.

  Keeping his distance, not wanting to get splashed, DI Francesco Guardo, redirected his eyes to the blood-covered bullet lying in the stainless steel dish. Seeing the specialist tools reminded him of his Grandfather’s workshop. Grandpapa Luigi had a clock repair business in Sorrento. Then in 1937 following Mussolini’s rise to power which led to the widespread persecution of leftist sympathisers he and his family fled Italy for Britain.

  ‘Yesterday I had three bodies in here and today I got a fourth.’ Tong said with a sweep of his hand, indicating the four gurneys loaded up with cadavers.

  ‘What the hell is going on?’ Frank said with a shake of his head.

  ‘That’s your department Frank,’ Tong said. ‘I just cut em open and then tell you what they died of and what they had for lunch.’

  ‘Making an educated guess,’ Frank said, ‘I assume all three males had died from gunshot wounds and the lady died from falling off a high building.’

  The pathologist laughed. ‘Sounds like I’m redundant Frank. I’ll get my coat shall I?’

  Frank managed a wry grin. Somehow being in a morgue always dampened his sense of humour.

  Guessing Frank was not in the mood for another of his jokes, Liam Tong said.

  ‘All three males were shot with the same point-thirty-eight. The female died from a broken neck and severe head injuries. You want to know what they last ate?’

  ‘No,’ said Frank with a firm shake of his head. ‘Spare me the details Liam. What else can you tell me?’

  ‘Victim number 1: Mario Pantanello,’ the forensic scientist said, moving across to one trolley, ‘took a clean shot between the eyes. His last meal was spaghetti Bolognese.’ Liam moved to another of the cadavers. ‘Number two here: Antonio Bentocelli. He also took a bullet between the eyes. Interestingly, I found traces of leather in the bullet entry hole. If I were to make a guess, I would say he was shot through a leather gun holster.’

  ‘Hmm, ‘mused, Guardo who was now sniffing the hand of Bentocelli. ‘Gunshot residue.’ He commented.

  ‘I was just about to say that.’ Tong said, his accent part Scottish and part Chinese.

  Gent filled him in on what he’d learned at the crime scene.

  ‘Victim number two was found lying across the threshold of the room. A handgun found by the body had his prints on it. A bullet recovered from the bedstead matched the gun. At the moment I am assuming victim number one was an assassination, whilst victim number two, died in a shootout.’ Guardo nodded his head at the dead waiter. ‘I wouldn’t mind betting he was killed with the same gun as the two Italians.’

  ‘Spot on Frank,’ Liam said. ‘Same point-38 handgun.’

  ‘Then I better go find him before you get any more gunshot victims in here.’

  Pacing the car park outside the morgue, DI Guardo jammed his Grandpapa’s hand-carved Olivewood pipe between his teeth. He had never smoked it but it helped him think.

  Chewing on the gnawed, ivory tip he reflected on the situation until an idea formed in his head. He popped the pipe back in his coat pocket and unlocked the door of his 1973 Alfa Romeo Spider sports car. Squeezing into the Spider’s tiny interior he fired up the engine and set off for the MIT (Major Investigation Team) HQ.

  When he walked into the Detectives room Frank heard his boss, DS Angela Foster, telling her detectives.

  ‘I will not have this city become a shooting gallery. I want every one of you out there.’ She pointed at a wall. ‘Get out there and find this shooter. I want him apprehended.’

  When she saw her DI walk in, Angela Foster nodded over to her office.

  ‘Take a seat Frank.’ Angela said going behind her desk and sitting down.

  ‘Thanks boss,’ D.I Guardo said, taking a seat.

  ‘Did you get anything useful out of the autopsy?’

  ‘Not a lot, Frank said. ‘The same gun was used in the shooting of all three males and as we thought, the woman died as a result of a fall from the Palace wall whilst attempting to gain entry to the King’s bedroom.’

  ‘A burglar?’

  ‘No,’ Frank said firmly. ‘I believe she was a hired assassin called Miranda Belladonna. She had zip wired from a nearby tree across to the wall outside the King’s bedroom. About her person we found a steel garrotte. At the moment I am thinking that she had lost her grip on the wall and f
ell to her death.’

  ‘Bloody hell Frank,’ the DS said, ‘we had better double the King’s security.’

  ‘I have already tripled the number of armed police guarding the Palace.’

  ‘Good what else can we do?’

  ‘I spoke to the King and said until we have apprehended the killer he should close the Palace to the public.’

  ‘Very sensible Frank.’

  ‘Yes, but he won’t hear of it.’

  ‘What! Is he mad?’

  No, I don’t think so. Just very brave.’

  DS Angela Foster was worried about her DI’s safety. She said.

  ‘Frank I know how much you hate carrying a firearm but I am going to insist that you sign out a handgun. I want you armed. You hear me?’

  Frank was sat behind his desk absent-mindedly playing with his Grandpapa’s pipe and going back over the facts. The first shooting looked like a gangland hit. The dead Polish waiter Thomaz Krakov, poor guy, was probably in the wrong place at the wrong time. The facts supported the assumption the killer had led the waiter down to the cupboard– shot him – and then closed the door on him. The murder scene surrounding victim number two was almost the reverse. According to Caprice Lewis, the Crime Scene Manager who had her team painstakingly recreate the crime scene, the shooter had been on the bed when he or she, shot victim number two who was standing in the doorway. The only blood found at the scene was the victim’s, so Frank concluded the killer wasn’t hurt. Which meant there was no point in him sending men out to the A&E departments looking for a guy reporting a gunshot injury.

  What Frank couldn’t work out was why both the deceased were Italians and had both flown in from New York within four days of each other? Could there be a mob feud going on in his city? Then, if that were true, his theory the King was the real target was wide of the mark.

  Chapter Thirty-four